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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592865">bury you back underground</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalyvse/pseuds/apocalyvse'>apocalyvse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Z-O-M-B-I-E-S (Disney Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Eliza is only mentioned, F/M, Fluff, Fluff with a hint of angst, Zeddison, you know me there has to be something going a little bit wrong</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:41:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,572</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592865</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalyvse/pseuds/apocalyvse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>March 19th, senior year, is definitively the best day of Zed Necrodopolis’ life.</p><p>Three years later, sat in a cold metal chair with his hands cuffed to a table, he leans back in his seat to get a look at the digital clock on the wall in the next room, and laughs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Zed Necrodopoulus/Addison Wells</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>bury you back underground</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>March 19<sup>th</sup>, senior year, is definitively the best day of Zed Necrodopolis’ life.</p><p>He can’t tell you <em>why</em>. There’s no particular reason; it was a day like any other day, school, football, home. His dad had worked late, Zoey had gone to a friend’s house, so Addison had stayed longer than she was strictly supposed to. He’d had all these <em>dreams</em> back then, he’d been working hard for grades and scholarships, he hadn’t rummaged through a trash can or tiptoed through the darkest streets he could find in the middle of the night for almost two years. He’d fallen into bed and looked at the date on his phone and thought to himself <em>this is the perfect life</em>.</p><p>Three years later, sat in a cold metal chair with his hands cuffed to a table, he leans back in his seat to get a look at the digital clock on the wall in the next room, and <em>laughs.</em></p><p>The officer’s head jerks up, her hand straying to the taser that sits conspicuously on the table between them. “You think this is funny?” she snaps, only relaxing a fraction when she sees that he isn’t making any attempt to remove his Z-band.</p><p>He shrugs, swaying back and forth in his chair and wondering if he would dislocate a shoulder if he overbalanced. “Officer Jones,” he says, as if he were talking to Eliza or Bonzo. “What would you say if I told you it’s my birthday?”</p><p>Her eyes narrow, her mouth opening to exhale in exasperation. At least her hand moves back to her pen, away from the weapon.</p><p>“I would say your birthday is written right here in your file, Necrodopolis,” Jones replies, glaring at him like he is the scum of the earth and the bane of her existence (he is. He’s worked hard for that title). “Right above the laundry list of infractions that says I shouldn’t give you a free pass.”</p><p>“Okay, <em>but</em>, it <em>is</em> March 19<sup>th</sup>,” he tries instead, undeterred.</p><p>“It is,” Jones agrees. “I’ll be sure to add to your file that you can read. It’ll be nice to have something positive in there for the next person that has to write you up.”</p><p>“But Officer Jones, <em>you</em> always write me up.” He gives her his most winning smile, big enough that his sister would fall over in fits of laughter if she could see him.</p><p>Jones glares at him. “Sit on your chair properly before you break your neck.”</p><p>“I knew you cared about me,” he gloats, and slams his chair into the floor loud enough that an officer walking past the door jumps in fright. Zed tries to wave at him, but the movement is stunted by the cuffs, and the sharp slap of Jones’ fingers hitting his.</p><p>“I care about not getting paid my overtime if you kill yourself with a chair,” she grumbles. “Sit still and shut up.”</p><p>“<em>Overtime</em>?” he repeats, willfully ignoring her instructions. “I used to think I’d get paid overtime one day.”</p><p>“You’re unemployed.”</p><p>Zed pretends to consider this new angle, screwing his face up comically. Jones doesn’t even look up from her paperwork to appreciate his efforts. “Fine, my dad then,” he says. “Picture this, right, he works like, sixty hours last week or something, barely seen him since Sunday, and then I look in the fridge today and all we’ve got is some freaky looking cabbage and like, two bucks. That’s all he got! Isn’t that crazy?”</p><p>“Maybe if you’d decided to get a job instead of a criminal record, you’d be able to buy something that you want to eat.”</p><p>“<em>Wow</em>.” He leans back in his chair again, trying to balance as far back as he can without falling. “<em>Thanks</em>, Miss Jones, if only I’d tried that <em>before</em> you found me in that dumpster! I can’t believe I became a part time criminal when I could have worked six days a week and <em>bought</em> that rotten fish instead!”</p><p>Jones’ pen snaps down against the table. Zed’s only a little bit satisfied at having broken her. It’s not every day that he achieves it – sometimes, she’s smart enough not to engage, and hauls him off to a cell before he can really lay the sarcasm on, but other days…</p><p>“Shut <em>up</em>, Necrodopolis,” she snaps, rubbing at her temples like she has a headache. He grants her the blessed silence she is looking for, though he doesn’t try to hide the grin that splits his face, wide and triumphant, just the sort of smile that will piss her off the most.</p><p>“Just tell me why you were going through the dumpsters,” she requests. “<em>Again</em>.”</p><p>Zed shrugs. “Linguini’s is the best place to get pasta,” he says, like he does every night, and watches her struggle to decide if she’s going to pick up the taser or bang her head against a wall repeatedly.</p><p>In the end, she just takes a deep breath, picks up her pen like it contains with it her will to live, and continues writing.</p><p>Zed’s at a loss for what to do next. Continue bugging Jones until she really does tase him? See if he can pick the locks on the cuffs? Purposely tip the chair over and find out if he really will break something when he falls?</p><p>“<em>Hi, Dad</em>,” a voice says somewhere outside the room, and all the thoughts disappear from his head.</p><p>He could swear his heart stops when he hears her voice, the memory of it from so long ago and yet so achingly familiar as it carries across the big room next door, closer than he’d ever dreamed of seeing her ever again. He forgets Jones and the cuffs, and the faint smell of garbage that lingers on his clothes – suddenly, the only thought he has is the memory of <em>her</em>, smiling and beautiful and only just out of his reach, only a door away.</p><p>He leans his chair back and tilts his head, straining to see out the door and across the room, to see <em>her</em>. Just a glimpse would be enough, just a chance to see her face as she passes by, to see what she’s wearing today, to hear her tip her head back and laugh like she used to.</p><p>Jones starts talking again, babbling some threat or another (probably <em>sit properly</em> or something; she tends to stick with the old favourites, rather than have to come up with new material every time they hang out). He ignores her. If he can just see a little further, a little more-</p><p>The chair slips out from under him, crashing onto its side next to him as it dumps him unceremoniously on the ground. The cuffs, holding his hands firmly atop the table, do little to break his fall, except for ensuring he hits his head on the edge of the table on the way down.</p><p>“Well that was stupid,” Jones says, stifling a laugh.</p><p>He groans, and presses his head against the cool metal of the table, willing his vision to stop spinning like something out of a cartoon.</p><p>“Are you…okay?” a voice asks, close enough that it must be coming from the doorway, and he freezes again.</p><p><em>She’s</em> here. She’s <em>here</em>. <em>Looking</em> at him.</p><p><em>Addison</em>.</p><p>“We’re fine,” Jones says dismissively, like she wants to send her away. “My friend here is just learning how to sit on a chair.”</p><p>He hears Addison laugh, small and short and just slightly amused at his misfortune. “Get up, Necrodopolis,” Jones orders, unsympathetic to his injuries.</p><p>He lifts his head, trying to judge if vertigo is going to bite him in the ass if he tries to stand up, and she gasps.</p><p><em>Addison</em>.</p><p>He turns, way too quick for his aching head, and forgets to black out or throw up because in that moment their eyes meet, and all of a sudden it is three years ago and he has never loved her more and there is no universe where they are twenty one and he’s covered in garbage and they haven’t laid eyes on each other in almost a thousand days, a million minutes…</p><p>Several seconds later, he remembers to throw up after all.</p><p>Jones makes a sound of disgust. “Why <em>me</em>?” she laments to no one in particular, rounding the table and releasing the cuffs. Zed slides to the floor properly, rubbing at his wrists and wondering if Zombie Patrol would let him die from a concussion.</p><p>His eyes stray back to Addison.</p><p>“I hope you remember this next time I sit you down in that chair,” Jones grumbles at him, wrapping a hand around his arm and hauling him to his feet. “Or better yet, next time you’re looking at a dumpster, class it up a bit and go home instead of jumping in.”</p><p>“It’s not about class, Officer Jones,” he says, and is disappointed to find that his words slur slightly in time with the spinning of his vision. “It’s about spaghetti and meatballs Friday.”</p><p>He wants to wink at Addison as she drags him out of the room, but he can’t co-ordinate his eyes in time, so he just stares at her for as long as he can instead, trying to memorise every inch of her face, until Jones drags him around the corner and out of sight.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Necrodopolis!”</p><p>He stirs slowly at the sound of his name, stretching lazily on the hard bunk of his cell before he stands up, trying to shake the stiffness from his limbs. Three days of inactivity is going to <em>kill </em>him when he gets back to dancing, or climbing through the barrier and running from Z-Patrol officers in the dead of the night.</p><p>Jones stands at the door, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently against the chipped tile of the floor. “Time to go,” she tells him and swings the door open, barely offering him enough time to pull on his boots. “Hurry up, before I change my mind and give you a week.”</p><p>A dozen smart remarks pop into his head, but he swallows them for now, instead just assuring her, “That won’t be necessary, Officer.” He can’t afford a week in the blank halls of Containment; he’s got stuff to do, people to see, a little sister to feed.</p><p>“I sure hope not,” Jones grumbles, shoving him down the hall. “We’ve got no room for nuisances like you right now.”</p><p>He’s about to ask what she means, but he doesn’t have to – they round a corner and enter a hallways crammed full of zombies, handcuffed and standing in a long line against each wall. He glances at each face as he passes them – Izzy, Zack, Ezra, Jaz.</p><p><em>Eliza</em>.</p><p>She gives him a look as he passes by, simmering anger underneath eyes that say <em>where the fuck have you been? You missed everything</em>! He pulls a face in return, unable to stop and explain, or to ask what she’s done <em>now</em>. It’s better if Jones doesn’t know they’re friends anyway.</p><p>“Protests?” he guesses as they walk away, keeping his voice light even though his mind is back with Eliza, wondering just what she’s done now.</p><p>Jones grunts an affirmative and swipes a keycard, opening a door for him. “You know anything about it?” she questions.</p><p>He’s quick to shake his head – maybe too quick. “You think I would get involved in any of that?” he asks, feigning innocence.</p><p>She snorts a laugh. “<em>Yes</em>,” she says emphatically, and then opens another door for him, one that leads to the carpark outside.</p><p>“You’ll have to walk yourself home,” she tells him as he steps out and breathes in the fresh evening air, staring up at the last colours of the setting sun. “There are no vehicles available. Stay out of trouble, for the love of god.”</p><p>He turns on his heel and salutes her as he walks backwards, grinning. Jones only rolls her eyes and slams the door, disappearing back into the madness that always follows a protest.</p><p>Zed turns for home, wondering to himself if it’s worth risking a few stops along the way.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The shadows seem to move around him as he slips down the empty back alleys of Seabrook.</p><p>He can’t shake the feeling of being watched, the pins-and-needles, creeping-down-the-neck sensation of someone – of <em>something</em> – following him. <em>No</em>, that’s stupid. <em>He’s</em> the monster, not whatever is stalking him. Monsters don’t hunt monsters.</p><p>Emboldened by this thought, he stops in the middle of a dark, narrow alley (<em>not far from the restaurant bins</em>, his mind reasons, but no, this isn’t the time to be tempting <em>that</em> fate). “Who’s there?” he shouts to the street at large, the light and the shadows and the wind that whips along the narrow alley like it intends to carry him back to Zombietown itself.</p><p>A face peeps out at him from behind the corner of a building.</p><p>He knows before she steps out into the open, who it is. The sunset shines silver and gold in her hair, her dress is the softest blue he’s ever seen, and her eyes are magnetic, drawing him in like a lost puppet following its strings back home.</p><p>“<em>Addison</em>,” he breathes, and she smiles, and for a moment it feels like March 19<sup>th</sup> all over again.</p><p>She’d walked him home that day too, only they’d strode hand in hand, not twelve feet apart and wary like they’ve never known each other.</p><p>“Hi, Zed,” she says, and she takes two steps towards him, the distance ever closing (but not fast enough, there is not enough time in the world for him to reach her before someone rips her away again, he should be going home why is he still here-)</p><p>“I thought you were in Zombie Containment,” she adds in the silence that follows, the void he forgets to fill because he’s too busy looking at her, mesmerised. “I was going to come and visit you, but my dad…”</p><p>“They let me go,” he tells her. “They had to make room for the others – the protestors – so they let me out.” She still looks troubled, so he adds, “It was only supposed to be four days anyway. They might even catch me up next time.”</p><p>“Next time?” Addison repeats. “Are you…you’re getting arrested on purpose?”</p><p><em>Shit</em>, Zed curses himself, rocking back on his heels. <em>Way to go.</em> Girl of his dreams comes to find him, maybe to reconnect, maybe to say all the things they’d left unsaid, years ago – and he paints himself a criminal in three sentences. <em>Nice</em> one.</p><p>“It’s not like that,” he tries, almost pleading with her to believe him. “It’s just – it’s something I have to do, and sometimes I get caught.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>He can’t tell if she believes him or not. His heart sinks, to think that after all this time, after dreaming about finding her over and over again, he might have ruined his second chance just by running his big, stupid mouth without thinking about it first.</p><p>His Z-band beeps at him, loud and high-pitched enough to make his ears ring. He glances down at the screen, and the little warning symbol that flashes back at him.</p><p>“<em>Shit</em>,” he says emphatically and taps the warning away. “I have to go.”</p><p>She stares at him, wide-eyed, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?” she asks.</p><p>He holds up his Z-band. “They turned my tracker back on,” he explains, and resists the urge to swear again. “I can’t get caught again, I have to get home – I’m so sorry Addison, I’m so sorry-”</p><p>He’s heading towards the other end of the alley, half-turned away before he’s even finished talking because his voice is breaking, regret seeping through, and his heart is tearing itself apart at the thought of leaving her <em>again</em>, of barely saying <em>hello</em> without any kind of <em>goodbye</em>-</p><p>“Zed, wait.”</p><p>He glances over his shoulder, and finds her chasing after him, hand outstretched and fear creasing her brow. Fear of losing him? His heart leaps as the space between them closes, until she is close enough to touch and his feet have become still again, despite the threat of law enforcement crawling at his heels.</p><p>“I miss you,” she blurts, the words running over the top of each other like she’s afraid he’ll miss them if she speaks too slowly. “I wish I’d known you were there before, I would have seen you; nothing is the same without you and I – I miss you.”</p><p>She takes his hand, her fingers warm and soft as they wrap around his. “I miss you too,” he says, like a promise, like a secret, and squeezes her hand. His Z-band beeps again.</p><p>He looks down the alley, dark and cold and devoid of wandering eyes. “Walk with me,” he requests, tugging her forwards.</p><p>She hesitates, fear echoing in her eyes again, and then she gives in and follows, her smile bright enough to rival the sun.</p><p>“Why were you in Containment?” she asks as they walk, speaking softly like she’s afraid the walls of the buildings around them are listening.</p><p>Zed laughs. “Dumpster diving,” he answers. “Behind the restaurants. They throw out a lot of food, and I know people that could use it, so…” He shrugs, and ignores the way his stomach twists sharply at the thought of food, at how bony his fingers are compared to hers, how thin his face is, gaunt and hollow. He wonders if she knows what hunger looks like. He wonders if it will be the thing that drives them apart.</p><p>No. He won’t stop loving her because she lives a good life, and he a very different one. He can’t blame her for things she does not and should never know, not even if he wanted.</p><p>She squeezes his hand, a soft, sad sort of understanding entering her eyes. Not an obnoxious delusion of knowledge, not a haughty sense of entitlement, an assumption that their pasts could not possibly have been filled with inequal amounts of suffering, just…understanding. Compassion. Empathy.</p><p>“Things are bad in Zombietown, aren’t they?” she says, not a question, but not an assumption either.</p><p>He hesitates, and then answers, “It’s not the future we dreamed of.”</p><p>“No,” she agrees. “I’m sorry for that.”</p><p>He loves this about her, her stalwart bravery in the face of everything that has crumpled around them, her willingness to shoulder the blame for the actions of her parents and her people, a people that have always shunned her, to whom she owes no loyalty at all.</p><p>“Tell me about it?” she requests.</p><p>He takes a deep breath and then, like it’s three years ago and he’s telling her about his day at school, he lets everything that comes to his mind go. Anti-monster laws, protests, falling employment rates, dwindling supplies. His father, working day and night for a pittance that barely pays their newly-instated taxes. His sister, throwing flips on the hard tarmac of the street even though she’s starved and tired and pushing her body too hard, because there is no school left for her to go to and double twists is all she has left.</p><p>He tells her about the older citizens living in the Graveyard, unemployed, not a penny to their names, catching rats and frogs to survive, waiting to see if a zombie can really starve to death. He tells her about passing Eliza in the hall, and how they sometimes don’t see each other for weeks, in and out of custody on minor charges so regularly they should just live there.</p><p>He almost tells her about the nights they spend talking about the futures they’ll never have, listening to Bonzo play something or examining his latest art piece. He can’t find the words to describe it though, keeps playing it down in his head and then cursing himself for making it sound stupid. Instead, he tells her that he thinks about her every day, and he laughs when she acts like it can’t possibly be true.</p><p>All too soon, they are at the gates, and she must leave.</p><p>“I wish it wasn’t like this,” she says, her eyes fixed on the barrier, the wall between their worlds.</p><p>“Me too,” he agrees. His eyes are only for her, drinking her in, fixing her image in his mind. He never wants to forget, not even when he’s old and grey and hobbling down to a house in the Graveyard.</p><p>“At least you know where to find me now,” he says lightly, gesturing back towards Seabrook. “Anytime you miss me, just check your local dumpster.” She giggles, and he glances towards the guards at the gate and then lowers his voice. “Don’t tell Officer Jones, but we’ll be at the pizza place next Wednesday.”</p><p>“Maybe I’ll see you there,” she whispers back conspiratorially, and his heart lifts with every word.</p><p>The Z-band beeps again, louder, more insistent, and one of the guards stands up straight, looking around for the source of the noise. “I have to go,” he says regretfully, and forces himself to let go of her hand, the night air frigid against his now-warm fingers.</p><p>She sees it in his face, the regret, the sorrow, at the thought of having to leave her, and she smiles. “It’s okay,” she tells him, and pushes him lightly towards the gates of Zombietown (<em>of his prison</em>). “I’ll see you again soon. I promise.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! please leave a comment to let me know if you liked it. for more of my stuff or to send me a prompt, find me on tumblr @zombiedadjokes :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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